


Ineffable

by EdenAziraphale



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Book!Omens only, Gen, I don't mess with the tv series, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24281032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdenAziraphale/pseuds/EdenAziraphale
Summary: It starts like this.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 5





	Ineffable

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Good Omens Celebration Day 1 prompt 'In the Beginning'. I forgot to post it, but better late than never.

It starts like this: 

You feel a pang of something strange, something foreign, as a weeping woman heavy with child is driven from the Garden, man following behind her, heads bowed. The fog rolls thick around them, dampening every inch of the new planet Earth with dew as a chill settles into the air. That  _ something  _ you feel doesn't leave you, even as the two humans (three, if the unborn child is to be counted, but you're not quite sure) disappear from your not-inconsiderable sight. It moves you to follow them once night has fallen and you have secured your Gate against all outsiders for the final time.

Fully aware of the sin you might be committing (and unable to justify or deny it even in your own mind) you tell the cold, despairing couple- both of whom are of your Father's newest children- that they need not fear you, even though they really very much should. You can't begin to fathom why you said anything at all. You bestow upon them the sword that was given to you by the order of the Viceroy and instruct it to give them flame for all of their days. You tell them not to thank you and never to return to the Garden. They thank you anyway. You leave. You think,  _ something is beginning. _

But really, it begins much earlier than that.

It starts like this:

Crawly was an angel, once, but he was never much for it. Angels are stuffy and boring and they tend to care too much for rules. Often they're hateful and full of the secret, scornful pride that passes for piousness in Heaven. He didn't have many friends among his brothers, and the ones that he did have Fell in the first wave, struck down by Michael in a battle so vicious and cruel that Crawly had wept for days. His name hadn't been Crawly then, of course, and soon it will be something else, but for now he is Crawly, and he is in a Garden, and this is how it all begins.

He finds you perched near your Gate, staring pensively out into the clouds blowing in from the east. 

You  don't see him at first for the fog. He's quiet in the way that only serpents can be, you decide, without really understanding what relevance serpents will have to either silence or your own life. You will learn in time (despite the wisdom you already believe to be infinite) about all of these things and more.

The rain is new, and it surprises you with its coldness. The utter  _ damp  _ of it takes you aback and for a few moments you lose time considering the discomfort. Up until now the days have been pleasant and the elements mild. It never occurred to you that discomfort is something you are capable of feeling, and the shock is great enough that you miss the Serpent's first words while you rearrange your worldview, trying to find a space there for the way the water slides coldly over your skin. You pull your wings up above your head, noticing for the first time how convenient they are for keeping dry.

The Serpent doesn't introduce himself, but you've seen him around. If anyone were to ask you, you would tell them that this whole thing is his fault entirely. No-one  _ does _ ask, however, so you keep it to yourself, mostly.

Discussing morality with a demon proves more confusing than you'd like, and by the time you both lapse into silence there's a niggling in your mind that hadn't been there before. A sense of something just beyond your reach. You don't try to grasp it, not yet. There have been enough new things today to last you your entire existence, you think. Or at the very least, enough to last you the week. Weeks are new, too, and what with them to get used to and rain and cold and- you let the feeling lie. 

It's alright.  _ This  _ is the beginning.

***

The next time you see the Serpent he's not a serpent at all. He has adopted the form of a man much like your own, but darker, the edges of him a tad more sleek and well-groomed. You almost miss him in the crowd, but his cleanliness gives him away. At this stage of the world, everyone is mostly dusty and relatively unkempt. The Serpent stands out simply because he looks a little neater than everyone else.

Not that you recognize their disheveledness for what it is. The concept of physical cleanliness is as alien to Heaven and to the angels that reside there as dirt is. The Earth has yet to step out of its infancy, barely breaking through its first millennium of life, but already you are learning. From the very first day you stepped foot in the Garden you have been learning. The ground beneath your feet is hard, except for when it is not, and the dirt smears unpleasantly over your skin when it is wet, crunches grittily between your teeth when it isn't. The desert sun bakes down on you when it shines, burns the ethereal paleness of your skin to a blistering red while the nights steal the warmth directly from your borrowed bones and leave you shaking. It never occurs to you that these are sensations you could choose not to feel. Your awareness that, though you walk among men, you are not  _ truly _ a man seems selective, inconsistent. It sets you apart from your brothers in ways that you won't understand for thousands of years.

The Serpent notices you noticing him. He passes you by warily, two predators circling, but never approaches. He disappears into the staggering mass of bodies which clogs the dirty street and you allow him to go. There are too many humans in the area to risk a confrontation. And after all, there will be other Enemies, other cities. You leave, too, taking care to move in the opposite direction, eyes casting about for anyone- any _ thing  _ that might be lurking in the shadows. 

The harshness of this place has already begun to imprint itself upon you and make you wary. Gone is the Principality who chatted with the Serpent in the Garden. In his place is you, Aziraphale, agent of Heaven, wielder of the sword. (You found a new blade to replace the old one. It doesn't flame, which means it's much less impressive, but it is well-balanced and sharper than human metals ever ought to be, and that satisfies you). You will destroy the Serpent when next you see him, you decide. It never occurs to you that he might have a name other than 'the Serpent'. This makes you exactly like your brothers, in ways that you will not be aware of for thousands of years.

***

Destroy him you do.

For the tender beginning of eternity, you tear one another to pieces. Ever the vengeful agent of your God, you hunt your adversary when the work is necessary (for it is always Good) and you pursue the righteous justice that the Serpent deserves. Necessary, though, is a loaded word, fraught with conflict and double meaning. Was it Necessary to fight him in the mountains when you found him alone amongst a shepherd's flock? It’s difficult to know the sort of wiles one might be up to out there. Was it Necessary to strike him down at the river, his back to the water and his eyes full of wary contempt? Was it Necessary when you hunted him through the desert, spending nights surveilling the dunes and searching the caves until finally you were able to corner and break him against the rock, the glint of your sword as cruel and unkind to him as the last light of Heaven? There is no-one to ask you these questions, and you do not ask yourself. Questioning does not come easily to you. You do the work, and the work is Good. You, with your sword and your Heaven-sanctioned brutality, win more fights than you lose. 

Sometimes (secretly) you don't fight at all. 

***

Somewhere after the second millennium, trips back to Heaven see you beginning to mourn the absence of your physical, human body like the loss of a favorite sweater. Each time you are discorporated, your body disintegrating in an explosion of Grace and light, you are debriefed by your superiors. You tell them about your efforts in the ongoing battle against a cunning Adversary, and they either commend or disparage your efforts depending on their moods. As time passes, you find yourself less and less concerned with their opinions. You do not tell them about the taste of dates, bursting honey-sweet over your tongue- or pomegranates, sharp and bright, the way they stain your fingers an unsubtle red. You wonder, more than once, whether it is possible for you to do the wrong thing. 

It's no more funny now than it was the first time.

***

The sister cities of Sodom and Gomorrah begin slowly. The ground is just soft enough, the climate just barely wet enough, to yield crops. It is a struggle at first, but in this time before time the people know little else, and so they coax a life for themselves out of the crumbling earth, working hard so that their children can eat and grow. Their hard work gets them far, but it’s not quite enough and so they use the drive of their need to spark innovation. They develop irrigation techniques, simplistic but beautiful- the most effective you’ve ever seen. Their crops take root in the stubborn earth and thrive. The genius of their success steals the unnecessary breath from your lungs. 

You watch, a bystander, giving no more than the gentlest nudge here and there, while the humans set up elaborate trade routes, a market system, their own small but thriving government. Slowly, the settlements become villages. Under your careful eye and the force of their own will to survive (it never stops amazing you, never stops being wholly incredible how hard they will work, how much they can  _ take _ ) the villages become towns. It takes decades, but the years pass in the slow blink of your timeless eyes and it feels like no time at all. And then they are  _ cities.  _

They’re the most impressive works of man that you’ve ever seen. The Gomorrahns have trade routes varied in such a way that the cities are a riot of mixing cultures and traditions. This is reflected in their architecture, in their art, in their food, their languages. Even their agriculture is more varied than any of the surrounding cities, with Sodom and Gomorrah both able to lay claim to having not only olive trees but also dates, figs, pomegranates, citrus. Their little families  _ thrive _ . 

You spend more than one night walking the city streets, listening to their riotous music, observing as they come together for community events and dances. You watch their families form and break apart. Sometimes, though you would never admit it, you pick favorites. 

***

“Is this yours?” 

Her toy is small in your hand, her fingers even smaller, and when you pass the little doll back, you think,  _ this is purer than Grace. _

She smiles, shy, and runs away without a word.  __

***

The Serpent discovers the cities when they are still young, no doubt attracted by their splendor. There’s plenty of wiling to get up to, after all, in places as large as these. You first hear rumor of him come from Gomorrah and decide to leave it be. You spend the majority of your time in Sodom, anyhow, and there’s much to be done here without ever factoring the Serpent into it. The work is Good, but this time it isn’t necessary (who decides?) and your time on earth has led you to appreciate the simple luxury of peace, quiet. When the Serpent comes here, you decide, you will do something about it. You don’t have proof that he’s committed crimes yet, anyway. (Though, you know, he most certainly has, and lack of evidence has not stopped you before). 

Years pass that way, the two of you coexisting without ever seeing one another. There’s no way for the Serpent to have spent so much time in such close proximity to you without knowing you’re here, but the status quo doesn’t change, and you don’t challenge it. You choose to ignore the fact that neither does he. 

***

Just as slowly as the cities grew, they begin a descent which you are not prepared for.

It’s not that the sin takes you by surprise, not exactly. Where humans go, chaos follows. But in Sodom, your experience has thus far been that for every terrible deed done, there are two acts of mercy, of kindness and generosity to follow it. It’s in this way that the city grew great, and it is in this way that it falls. You cannot even truly blame the demon, though you ache to try. Out of respect for whatever unspoken truce the two of you have formed, he never crossed the boundary out of Gomorrah and into Sodom. The problem starts in  _ your  _ city and then spreads to Gomorrah like a plague. 

Streets that had before been peaceful turn violent. Women and children no longer walk alone out of fear. The hungry and poor starve in corners and in alleys. Their slight, fragile frames quake with cold, feet cracked and bare, bloody in the dirt and rock. The charity that once made this city overflow with abundance shrivels up, claiming lives as it goes as if it can’t bear the thought of dying alone. 

You do your best. You buried the strict non-interference policy you were meant to live by long ago and in its place you build shelters. You raise money, and awareness. You spend your days on street corners preaching and your evenings at sickbeds, healing. You do everything you can and it isn’t enough. Never in your life have you not been enough. The vibration of your voice alone is enough to turn mountains to rubble but here, in these two Damned cities, you can’t convince a single stone to move.

***

Angels come to Sodom.

“Good time to be getting out of town,” one tells you, more out of professional courtesy than any real brotherly affection, rocking from one foot to another while they examine the passers-by with judgmental eyes. “It’s going to be dust, soon, and every living thing goes with it. We’ve given Lot a couple of days to pack. That’s more than enough time for you to split, yeah?” They leave, not caring one way or another for your answer. 

Hopelessness is new, and so strong you fear it might drown you. 

For a moment (or perhaps a handful of moments) you are tempted simply to drown your sorrows in one of the city’s many overflowing pubs. The thought causes you no small amount of vague, incomplete anxiety. Alcohol is one of many vices ( _ appreciations,  _ you prefer to call them) which you have so carefully cultivated in yourself over the past millennium, and Sodom has by far the best you’ve ever tasted. You shake off the desire with what feels to be a Herculean effort and force yourself to focus. 

Eventually, your thoughts turn toward the Serpent. 

Unless his people have somehow gotten word of the mass extermination which is about to take place (and that seems very unlikely) the Serpent will be in Gomorrah when the cities are destroyed. 

A sickly kind of discomfort settles in the pit of your stomach. For hours you try to ignore it, walking the streets and contemplating evacuation, but the sensation never quite leaves you- always clinging somewhere like spiderwebs on your skin. 

There is no reason for you to care about the fate of your enemy. In the event that he is eliminated, half your job is taken care of in one effortless afternoon. Hell would surely send another field agent, but it could be years before they manage to find a suitable replacement.

Curiously, you’re not certain that you  _ want  _ a replacement.

It’s just that you know this particular model so well, and surely learning the ins and outs of someone new would negatively impact your ability to perform. You’ve had over a thousand years to study the Serpent- that kind of knowledge is irreplaceable. It would take you millennia to replicate that with someone else. He simply  _ has _ to stay. For the good of Earth and of Heaven, the Serpent must live.

Your superiors can never know, of course. They wouldn’t understand your reasoning- Heaven isn’t exactly known for their innovative thinking- and it’s likely you’d come under punishment for acting without permission. That’s alright. You’ve grown so used to hiding things that now it’s nearly second nature. 

It takes some work to find out exactly where he's staying, but once you do you're confident that your plan will be successful.

***

The Serpent  _ sleeps.  _ You discovered this about him early, in the first 500 years when tensions were so much higher than they are now. It's a weakness that you've neither understood nor exploited, but tonight it works in your favor. You have to steal a lamb from a local herd to slaughter it, but this doesn't bother you overmuch. These cities are doomed. Whatever use the shepherd might have had for the lamb has long since come past due. The actual act of  _ slaughtering  _ the beast is rather barbaric, however. The mess more than anything is what bothers you, but you recognize that certain sacrifices must be made for what is ultimately the greater good. You ensure that the creature feels no pain.

The ritual you use is a simple one, but it is as old as you are, and you know without doubt that it will work. After collecting a small basin full of the lamb's blood, you leave the carcass in a field. On the walk to the rented rooms where the Serpent has been staying, Gomorrah comes to life around you. For all that it is Sodom's sister-city, the sounds and smells here are entirely different, the culture just strange enough that the unfamiliarity of it leaves you uncertain and on edge. If the Serpent senses you in his city, he never turns up, and you never search for him. You trust that he will return to his rooms tonight to sleep. For better or worse, the Serpent is addicted to his habits and in all the years you've studied him, you've never known him to turn his back on the safety and comfort of whatever bed he calls his.

The blood is thick and cool on your fingers when you spread it above the door. It leaves your palm unpleasantly tacky. You ignore the sensation in favor of ensuring that the entire bowl of blood is spread across the wood. In theory, the  _ amount  _ used shouldn't matter, but there's no substitute for thoroughness. When you leave, the muscles in your arm ache curiously from so much time spent reaching, but you find yourself satisfied with your work. The sensation is a pleasant distraction from the sinking despair that has become background noise ever since you learned the fate of these two cities. You're already mourning them, mind caught in an endless loop of self-doubt, asking yourself,  _ What could I have done? What didn't I do for them? _

One of the hardest lessons that this world teaches you is this: 

Sometimes, even your best will not be enough. There will be days where you do everything perfectly, and still things fall apart around you. This is the nature of the universe and of free will. Humans and angels alike will make their choices, regardless of your intervention. The futility, the unfairness of it, is going to sting. It stings now. 

It will  _ always _ be like this.

But do your best not to fret. This world will also teach you balance. It will make up for those terrible days by taking ones where you seemed to do everything wrong and gifting you a happy ending anyway. You will grow accustomed to failure, even when you shouldn’t have failed. You will grow accustomed to success, even when it shouldn't have been possible.

This day, the world grants you a bit of both.

You leave Sodom at first light, the blood of the lamb which you washed from your hands hours before seems to have found a new place in the red dawn. You watch Lot as he goes with his family, witness the terrible cruelty of your brothers as they strike his wife down, turning her to salt when she can't help but look back.  _ Overkill, really,  _ you think bitterly. You knew Ado, if only vaguely, and she had always seemed a terribly nice woman.

You watch longer still, safely from atop a faraway mountain as  _ it  _ happens. You hadn't wanted to, at first, but sitting here with your eyes locked to the blinding fire and the rubble- it's important to you, somehow.  _ If I failed you,  _ the thought comes unbidden and all the more honest for it.  _ The least I can do is witness you.  _ You don't blink or close your eyes until the very last of the flames has faded away. There are no tears. This human body of yours is not familiar enough with your grief to release it, so the sharp stinging ache of it remains caught inside of your chest. 

Your brothers don't stay. One city burning looks much the same as any other, they reason, and these two are hardly the first to go. They overlook the mountains just long enough to see Lot's family disappear in the winding rocky trails which lead to the other side and then they are gone. This means that when the fire goes, too, you are the only one left to see the tiny cottage of an inn still standing, looking suspiciously like a miracle against the backdrop of scorch marks.

Even the Serpent cannot sleep through something so cataclysmic as holy fire raining from the sky, but he isn’t a fool. He'll remain inside just a little longer, you think, to be certain the threat is gone. But then he’ll venture out, he’ll have  _ questions.  _ The Serpent is nothing if not cunning. He’ll know even now that he shouldn’t be alive. 

You have no intentions of being here to answer him. 

The walk from Gomorrah to  _ anywhere  _ is long, but you make yourself take it. You feel every step that carries you away from the ruins as acutely as you felt the beat of Sodom’s heart beneath your feet the night before she was destroyed. You still do not weep. 

***

Mercy is a fickle thing for angels, and fleeting. Yours only carries the Serpent so far. When you find him again, trying to tempt a young man at the edge of the sea coast of Jordan, you run him through so quickly that he doesn't have the time he might need to protest, or even to scream. The child- he can't be a day over 19 years old to your eyes- drops a handful of coins in the surf and takes off, his feet kicking up a spray of sand and water.

Still impaled on the length of your sword, the Serpent’s body glimmers faintly, shimmering with the tell-tale signs of discorporation. His glare is remarkable, even now with blood flecking the spiteful curve of his lips. He spits at your feet, blood and bile and a long hiss of pain. If he can speak, he doesn't try, and by the time his blood has run far enough to reach your hand on the hilt of your sword, his body is falling away into nothing. 

The blood goes with it, but your hands feel warm and slick for hours after. 

***

When next you see the Serpent, he is seated alone in the ruddy sand at the base of the cross, knees pulled tight to his narrow chest. Your hackles rise.  _ Of course,  _ you think, and the thoughts are more vicious than usual, made ugly by your anger and your pain.  _ Of course he's here.  _ He must be responsible in some way for Judas, for the betrayal. Of course he twisted a man whose faith could have been wrought iron. 

Beneath the red-hot fire of your rage you know that the Christ's death was scheduled, that it was all part of the Plan, but that doesn't stop the way you approach the demon now, righteous fury burning in your veins.

“ _ Serpent! _ ” Your voice is loud, commanding, and it cuts through the silence of a land in mourning. In front of you, the demon turns his head to face you briefly and then looks away. He doesn't move from his spot.

“I'm not in the mood to fight you, Aziraphale,” the Serpent says tiredly, never glancing up from the gritty red-brown of the blood stained sand at his feet. “If you're going to discorporate me, do me a favor and get on with it.” You stop, feet rooted in the sand as if you were planted there. In 4,000 years, he has never said your name. You didn't even think he knew what it was. The Serpent hears your silence for what it is and laughs humorlessly.

“I have a name, too, you know,” he points out, tone full of resigned bitterness. “Picked it myssself, even, and I don't think I can stand one single moment more of that ' _ Serpent' _ shite.” The word 'serpent' is full of mocking, and the weight of it hits you harder than you expect it to. Shame isn't an emotion you're familiar with, not yet, but in the next several millennium you will come to know it intimately. Right now, all you can register is a sickly weight in your gut mingling uncomfortably with the acid-bile of your simmering anger. 

“It's Crowley,” the demon continues, without waiting for you to respond. “My name is Crowley. If we’re going to continue chopping each other into bits until the end of time, you could at leassst do me the decency of using it.”

He says all of this without turning around and you find yourself temporarily unable to move and unable to answer. Something about those words, about the startling endlessness of the future he described sends a piece of you reeling beneath the scorching desert sun. 

There’s a notion, a thought, one you’re afraid to look at too closely for the way simply glancing at it makes you feel nauseous.  _ You’re a soldier _ , you remind yourself steadfastly, knees decidedly not buckling when, in the face of the Serpent’s rage, you realize he has never struck you first. You have been fighting this demon,  _ Crowley,  _ forever. Even now, even for you, this knowledge of forever, of the world you have known, is so hard to grasp, made harder still by the realization that of all the fights- the battles and the struggles and the making ruins of one another atop mountains and in valleys and at the mouth of the ocean- you two have fought, Crowley has never started a single one. 

Guilt. Shame. An uncomfortable curl of something sickeningly close to doubt. 

Questioning, I have said, does not come easily to you, but it  _ does  _ come, and right now it feels like the ground has dropped from beneath you. You have no wings to stop this particular fall and so your stomach doesn't settle, but rather, it sits in your throat and refuses to move, waiting for you to give your fears a voice.

It's alright, child. It starts like this.

***

It turns out that  _ Ineffability  _ is much harder to stomach when the plans aren't quite what you'd like them to be. This is the problem with pain. You thought that you had learned the hardness of this world but the difficult things are only just beginning to come to you. You are learning. From the moment you first stepped foot on the planet, you have been learning, but there are many lessons still, and many of them will hurt you.

You stare at the demon seated in the sand. He seems to have forgotten you. It's fair, you decide. In the past you have proved yourself a force to be reckoned with, but here, with Jerusalem’s blue sky and bright sun above you, Crowley has already won whatever fight there was to be had, and he knows it. You do not apologize. He is still a  _ demon,  _ after all, and not to be trusted, but the fact that you hadn't thought enough of him to even wonder his name doesn't sit well with you. He deserves at least that. At least the acknowledgment that he  _ is  _ a cunning Adversary. Right now, he's also the closest thing you have to company. You have never wanted company before, and you're not entirely certain that you want it now. The sensation of uncertainty is not entirely unfamiliar to you, but it  _ is  _ wholly unpleasant, and that unpleasantness causes you to dither slightly as you take a few halting steps forward.

“Crowley,” you say this time, banishing the name Serpent from your own mouth as if it is cursed. His name is unfamiliar on your tongue, but not as uncomfortable as you had thought it might be. Your voice isn't so soft that the blow of the desert winds carries it away, but it's a near thing.

The demon half-turns again, regarding you with shrewd eyes that glint golden beneath the cloudless sky. He doesn't speak. “I thought-” You pause because your voice cracks, throat dry from both your grief and its own disuse. “What are you doing here?”

Crowley raises one eyebrow at you, seemingly unimpressed with the question. He has no reason to answer, and no reason to trust you. It would be smarter for him not to, you realize with a pang, another unknown emotion striking you in your chest. “Same as you, I expect.” He says eventually, gesturing with one long-fingered hand at the cross. “Grieving.” The word falls heavy from his mouth like a stone and you twist your own into a disagreeing frown before it even has time to make impact.

“I tried to warn Him, you know.” Crowley continues, once again seemingly uncaring as to whether you have a response or not. “I knew that they were coming for Him, and I tried to- I wanted Him to run. He wouldn't.” The demon exhales a shaky sigh and leans back, tilting his face toward the warmth of the sun, eyes closed and brow creased.

You do not want to believe that he is grieving. For all that face is a mask of pain and his words seem sincere- that would make the two of you too close. Too similar. And you  _ know-  _ this without doubt- that you are as different from this demon as it is possible to be.

You are right, in ways you won’t understand for thousands of years. 

Despite this, you find your mouth opening, find yourself answering, perhaps as an amends for your previous behavior, perhaps not. “His death was planned,” you tell him. This speech is rehearsed, so well-learned from your superiors that there is no crack in your voice when you say it, no subtle shaking. “We knew before He was ever born that He was destined for this.” The words elicit the same curious stir of comfort and resentment in you that they did a week ago. Your faith in your Father is absolute but your faith in your superiors is dwindling, and you don’t yet have words to express the difference. “It should comfort you to know that it's all been according to the Plan.” You say dutifully, despite the way that the sentiment digs at you with its utter wrongness.

Crowley startles you by laughing, loudly and bitterly and almost entirely without humor. The sound is so full of mocking as it echoes back at you from the city walls that something in you flinches from it involuntarily. He stands then, his body jerking upright with movements that are abrupt and jittery. You tense, preparing for a fight that you know now, from both experience and this moment of bitter revelation, isn’t coming unless you start it. He advances on you, golden eyes bright and fevered but dry. 

“I should be  _ comforted _ ?” He spits, looming above you from his human body's superior height. You have never before been in such close proximity to him when there wasn't violence involved. This near and with nothing to distract you, you can see the circles under his eyes like bruises against the warm, earthy ochre of his skin. You find yourself wondering, quite against your will, if they've been there long and the shock of the curiosity is enough to keep you from answering.

Crowley clearly doesn’t care whether you have an answer or not. It occurs to you that he probably doesn’t care about anything you have to say because he plows on, spine rigid and expression arranged in a moue of disgust. “Tell me,  _ angel, _ ” he growls the word, expels it from himself like he can’t stand to say it. It makes you feel dirty, unclean, as if being an angel speaks negatively about you somehow. Before now, it never occurred to you that for some people it probably does. “Is that what your bosses told you? Hm? That there was more to be gained from Hisss death than there was from His life? Your lot does  _ love  _ acceptable losses.” 

Resentment rises in your throat like acid. It’s possible that you have behaved poorly in the past, but you are  _ still  _ an angel, still a warrior of God, still deserving of the respect that your position demands. 

Crowley sees the shift in you and something about it makes him smirk unkindly. “Amazing how fast you can go from apologetic to righteoussss. Stick with hypocrisy, Angel. It  _ suits  _ you.” And then he’s gone, turning on his heel and striding off into the blinding sun, silhouette dark against the sky. 

His words prickle uncomfortably in the back of your mind in a way that you can’t quite ignore no matter how you try. In front of you, the cross looms ominously before the city walls. You can see the dark stains on the wood where the Christ’s blood soaked in and it makes your gut clench. The shadow it casts falls over you when the sun shifts and the darkness feels hostile, condemning. Your entire purpose for coming here had been to pay your respects, and now you cannot even do that for how wholly unwelcome you feel. You press one hand to the rough wood of the cross, feel the way splinters dig into your palms, and murmur a simple prayer. It will have to do. 

You shift, drawing ruffled, immaterial wings about yourself protectively and head back toward the city’s heart, where you will be able to immerse yourself in the hustle and bustle of humanity at work. Before you disappear inside you cast a single glance back in the direction that Crowley had gone, but be it by supernatural means or human ones, he has already passed beyond the horizon. That he won’t be returning to this city in the near future is obvious, and it gives you a curious stir of disappointment to realize that he won’t be here to witness the resurrection. You think that, at least, would have comforted him.

***

You don’t call him ‘the demon’ anymore. Not even in your head. 

***

Years pass. The shame you felt in that desert stays fresh, stinging, and keeps you as far from Crowley as it is possible to be. The Earth is a big place, and avoiding things you find unpleasant has become something of a specialty. It’s possible, of course, that Crowley is avoiding you as well, but you doubt it. You were left so thoroughly wrong-footed after your last encounter that he must be simply dying to press the advantage, you think. 

Considering the perspectives of others, so different from your own, is _not_ an area where you excel.

***

The tenor of your recalls to Heaven begins changing. They happen less frequently, for one. As politics and life and interdepartmental drama progress, your plight on Earth falls to the back of Heaven's rotational radar. 

Somehow the omissions which had become so common during your briefings have slowly transitioned into outright lies. You can’t bring yourself to feel badly for it, not even when they ask you to describe for them the whereabouts of your Enemy. Not even when you stare into the blinding, unfettered Grace of your superiors and tell them that you’ve not seen hide nor hair of an Adversary since before the crucifixion. 

***

When next you see Crowley, it’s notable if only for the fact that there’s nothing going on. No cities burning, no savior sacrificed, no fights looming. He is simply in a tavern, and you are in a tavern. 

He sees you. 

You know that he sees you because he makes a face that you’ve only ever seen him make at you- something like derision, or disgust, or the way he’d sounded when he spat the word ‘Angel’ at your feet. It’s fair, you’ve decided. In the years between that encounter and this one, you’ve had space to reflect. On faith, and on respect, and on what it means to inhabit this Earth with an adversary to whom you are now much closer than you are to any angel in Heaven. 

The knowledge that you’ve stared down shame much more dangerous than the ache of growth (and you know, now, that what you’d felt in that desert was the awkward pain of growing), and come out the other side whole _ ,  _ bolsters you _.  _ You are _ wholer,  _ even, perhaps, than when you’d started. It had only been hard to admit it at the time. 

It’s very easy, however, to take a seat at the bar next to Crowley, two stools away. Too close to be missed, but not so close that Crowley  _ has  _ to talk to you. It would be perfectly justified of him to ignore you as you flag down a wine, sip at it distantly, but Crowley isn’t good at ignoring things. You know this because you watched- covertly, of course, and  _ decades _ ago- as Crowley traced the origin of a pastry he enjoyed through three separate villages to find the woman who baked them. He digs at splinters and at scabs and, much like he does his penchant for sleep, Crowley makes a habit of indulging his own curiosity _.  _ Crowley is restless and he’s capable of incredible fixation.

Currently, he’s fixated on you. 

What you’ve done isn’t remarkably subtle, of course, and you’d be embarrassed, maybe, except it does get the job done.  _ If the iron be dull _ , you think, as Crowley side-eyes you with a similar lack of subtlety. 

“Well?” He says finally, just when you were beginning to think you might need to order a second wine. 

You look at him full-on, take advantage of the thrilling  _ new _ ness (you do so love when things are new) of the situation to study the way his eyes glint- golden, untrusting- in the agitated flicker of the firelight. 

You smile, dithering only a moment before extending your hand. “Aziraphale.” 

He glances down. Your palm hovering between you isn’t much in the way of peace offerings. “I never did introduce myself, before,” you continue, hopeful despite yourself. “You said your name is Crowley, I believe.” 

The silence stretches on, and you let it. The first stone has been cast. 

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to [Kim](https://shadylex.tumblr.com/) and Lindsey for betaing this for me, as well as [my wife](https://crawly.tumblr.com/) for putting up with me while I bitched about this, haha. 
> 
> If you're after more hot garbage or wanna shoot the shit, hit me up on my [Tumblr!](https://edenaziraphale.tumblr.com/)


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